


A Christmas Party, Revisited

by ClandestinePen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClandestinePen/pseuds/ClandestinePen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is throwing a Christmas party. Again. Haven't they already celebrated Christmas once?</p><p>Written for yarsian for the JohnLockChallenges Re-Gift Exchange. The prompt: "Sherlock and/or John attempt domesticity".</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas Party, Revisited

Sherlock stomps into the flat at 221B Baker Street, and scowls. His eyes search the room until he finds John, sitting in his chair by the fire, typing away on his laptop.  
  
“Molly told me she’d see me on Saturday, John,” Sherlock growls.  
  
“Did she? Good. Greg said he’d be able to make it, too.” John sounds amused at Sherlock’s foul mood.  
  
“Make it to what?”  
  
“Christmas party. Don’t frown like that. I told you about it a week ago when I sent out the invitations.”  
  
“Christmas party? Here? Again?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“It’s been a few years since the last one. This is the first Christmas since you’ve --” John pauses to clear his throat. “The last party was nice. Thought maybe we could turn it into a tradition. You didn’t seem to mind when I told you.”  
  
“You didn’t tell me. When did you tell me?”  
  
“Last week, when you were sorting out that mould experiment. You told me it was fine.”  
  
“You can’t expect me to actually pay attention to you when I’m in the middle of an experiment.”  
  
“Yet you expect me to participate in conversations with you when I’m not even in the flat.” John grins and returns to his typing. “It’ll be fun.”

 

~~~~~

  
The sun is sitting low in the sky when Sherlock wakes, the scent of tea pulling him from his slumber. He rolls over and passes his arm over John’s side of the bed, gone cold long ago. Ah, there’s the tea, still steaming on the bedside table. Sherlock has always kept erratic sleep habits, but John seems to know when he’s about to rise and greets him with a hot beverage. A smile pulls at Sherlock’s features. _John._  
  
When Sherlock steps out into the flat, mug in hand, his smile drops.  
  
“John!”  
  
John peeks his head out of the kitchen. “Oh, you’re up. Care to give me a hand in here?”  
  
The flat has been transformed. The papers, maps and photos Sherlock had pinned to one wall to review for his last case are all taken down and replaced with a wreath; the mantle over the fireplace is covered in fairy lights, as is the mirror, and the skull is sporting a santa hat; there is a potted poinsettia on the cleared table which held piles of police and lab reports the night before.  
  
“What are you --” Sherlock nearly drops his tea as he rounds the corner to the kitchen. “My work. Where is my work?”  
  
“Don’t worry. I’ve put everything up. You can pull it all back out on Sunday.” John holds up a pad of paper. “I’m making a list before I do the shopping. Anything you want for tomorrow?”  
  
“What do you mean you’ve put everything up? I had experiments running, John. Important ones. For cases.” Sherlock frantically looks around the kitchen, searching for the vials of enzymes he’d left on the counter next to the bananas.  
  
“You solved your case last night,” John reminded him. “I’ve called round and asked all the criminals of London to take the weekend off. You’re free until Sunday.”  
  
Sherlock frowns at John’s joke. “Why do we need people in the kitchen anyway? Surely they don’t need to be in the kitchen to attend your party.”  
  
John sighs. “Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock. Don’t you think she’d be happy to come up here and see the flat looking like a flat and not a laboratory for a change? Just once a year?” Sherlock huffs, but doesn’t object. John holds up the list again. “Anything you want for tomorrow?”  
  
“Those things Mrs. Hudson makes, with the jam,” Sherlock mumbles before turning and walking out of the kitchen.

 

~~~~~

When John returns to the flat hours later with bags of food and wine, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t reappear even after John puts everything away and takes the bag he picked up for Mrs Hudson downstairs. Nor does he show up after John changes into pyjamas and watches a movie. Not even when John looks at the time, sighs, and heads to bed.

 

~~~~~

John opens his eyes against the darkness, and his thoughts are fuzzy. Remnants of a dream mix with reality, and for a moment he can’t make sense of either. Gradually, the violin music grows clearer, and John sits up in bed. Sherlock is home. _Sherlock._  
  
He pads out of the bedroom, legs still stiff from sleep, and sees Sherlock in his customary spot by the front window with his beloved violin balanced under his chin. The bow runs slowly back and forth as a haunting rendition of Away in a Manger fills the room. The fairy lights on the mantle twinkle against half two in the morning. But there’s more.  
  
Against the wall, sitting on the table next to the poinsettia, is a small tree covered in lights and tinsel. It’s barely taller than the red potted plant, but John stares at it as if it’s the most beautiful Christmas tree he’s ever seen.  
  
Sherlock finishes the melody and lowers his instrument.  
  
“Where did that come from?” John asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper.  
  
“Why do you care so much?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“About what?”  
  
“This party. Christmas.”  
  
“I’ve always liked Christmas, you know that.” John shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other.  
  
“No, it’s more than that. Last time you made me move all of my papers and experiments. This time you did it all yourself.” He turns to face John, waiting for an answer.  
  
John licks his lips. “I had a place to move everything this year. All in the upstairs bedroom, I’m sure you noticed.”  
  
Sherlock returns his violin to its case. “There’s still something different. Your shopping list. It was much more extravagant than last time.”  
  
With a sigh, John brings his hand to his shoulder and rubs the tight muscle there. “Alright, yes. I wanted to throw a nicer party this time. Why is that a problem?”  
  
“Shall I tell you, or will you tell me?”  
  
“You won’t like it.”  
  
“Tell me.” Sherlock stares a John, the type of stare that makes most people shy away from the intensity. John stares back.  
  
“Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. I know I’ve told you that. And I’ve spent the last two alone. I mean, Harry called me up and asked me to come down, but she was always either trying to fix me up with one of her friends or going on about how much she misses her ex. So I told her I had to work, and just stayed in my flat alone. The one before those, we had the party. And it was great, until Irene faked her own death and Jeanette broke up with me. So yes, Sherlock, this year I have you back -- which is a miracle by itself -- and I wanted to make a new memory. Because I don’t just have you back as my flatmate or my colleague or my friend. I’ve got all of you, and you’ve got all of me. And I wanted our first Christmas together, really together, to be special.”  
  
Sherlock is quiet for a moment, processing John’s words. Just as John begins to worry he has said too much, Sherlock says, “For the party.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The tree. Thought I’d help you decorate, for the party,” Sherlock replies, his words soft. “If it’s not right --”  
  
“No,” John says, raising his hand to silence Sherlock. “It’s lovely. Perfect.”  
  
John crosses the room and wraps his arm around the taller man’s waist, resting his head on the hollow of his shoulder. Sherlock brings his arms up and pulls John closer. He presses a kiss into John’s sleep-mussed hair.  
  
“Thank you,” John whispers.  
  
“It’s endearing, your affection for Christmas,” Sherlock replies. Then he pulls back and looks into John’s eyes.  
  
“This party,” he says, “You didn’t invite Mycroft, did you?”  
  
“No more than I’d invite Harry,” John says. “Just like it was last time. Greg, Molly, and Mrs Hudson.”  
  
“Last time you invited your girlfriend,” Sherlock reminds him.  
  
“Haven’t got one of those this year.” John smiles fondly and cups Sherlock’s face with his hand. Sherlock responds by lowering his head and meeting John’s lips with his own.  
  
“Come to bed,” John says.  
  
Sherlock smiles and complies.

 

~~~~~

  
“Sherlock, come give me a hand, would you?”  
  
“Again? Last night wasn’t sufficient?” Sherlock grins as John throws a tea towel at him.  
  
“I meant a hand with putting out the food, and you know it.” John tries to sound annoyed, but he can’t quite manage.  
  
Sherlock attempts to act put-upon as he carries dips and antipasti platters and the damned stuffed mushrooms John fussed over all day and other various finger foods to the table, but he can’t quite manage either.  
  
Mrs. Hudson comes upstairs, bearing a load of goodies herself. There’s barely time to put those out before the other two guests arrive.  
  
“You shared a cab,” Sherlock remarks as they enter together.  
  
Molly blushes, but Greg simply replies, “So what if we did?”  
  
Mrs Hudson tuts Sherlock’s lack of manners and offers them a drink.  
  
Later, after John drops a glass of wine and Sherlock helps him clean it up; after Molly makes a more official announcement of her new relationship; after Mrs Hudson shares stories of Christmas parties she used to attend decades ago; after Sherlock casually sets a stuffed mushroom ablaze; after John admits to memorizing ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas as a child and recites it word for word as proof; after Sherlock pulls out his violin and plays every Christmas song the five of them can think up; after Greg proposes a toast to good friends and new traditions; after all that, Molly finds Sherlock in his chair by the fire. She takes John’s chair.  
  
“It worked out then, with John?” she asks.  
  
Sherlock nods. “Your perception of the situation was correct.”  
  
“You mean I was right,” she says with a wink.  
  
“I won’t repeat myself,” he says. “I bought the tree.” He points to the twinkling tree on the table.  
  
“It’s nice,” she says encouragingly. “It means a lot, you coming to me.”  
  
“You haven’t let me down yet,” he says. Then, as if the spell is broken, he says, “So, judging by your earrings and nail polish, you’re planning on taking Lestrade to bed tonight.”  
  
Her eyes grow wide, then narrow in a scowl. “I knew it couldn’t last, you being decent.”  
  
“Nothing ever lasts.”  
  
Molly gives a pointed look toward John, talking sports with Greg across the room. “I wouldn’t say that,” she says.  
  
“No, Mrs Hudson, you don’t have to stay and help us clean up,” John says after Molly and Greg leave a little while later.  
  
“I don’t mind,” she says with an indulgent smile. “You can help.”  
  
John dries and puts away the glasses and plates, and compliments Mrs. Hudson on her impeccable baking. She washes and compliments John on his wine choices, because she's too polite to mention the stuffed mushrooms and because she knows he tried his best. By the time they’ve finished, John isn’t surprised to find Sherlock curled around his laptop on the sofa wearing pyjamas and his dressing gown.  
  
Once they have the flat to themselves again, John brings Sherlock a cup of tea. Sherlock acknowledges him by raising his feet enough to make room for John on the sofa, immediately letting them fall into John’s lap the moment he sits.  
  
“Good party?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“Very good.” John takes a sip of his tea. “Thank you.”  
  
“Me? For what?” Sherlock looks over the top of the screen at him.  
  
“I know it’s hard for you, tidying up and making small talk and being social. But you did it anyway. So, thank you.” John squeezes Sherlock’s ankle, then moves his hands to his feet, rubbing small circles into the arches.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t reply. Instead he closes his laptop. He sits up and scoots closer to John, inhaling the warm scent at his neck and before tasting the skin with his tongue. Sherlock feels fingers in his hair and hot breath on his ear. And he feels utterly at home.

**Author's Note:**

> Yarsian, I hope that this makes up for not getting a gift in last challenge. And I hope this lived up to your expectations. No angst! Gah! You certainly pointed out one of my faults as a writer. I had to make a huge effort to keep it fluffy, and some angst managed to slip in anyway. 
> 
> For everyone else, thank you very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it, and have a happy holiday season!


End file.
